Spreading the culture of Duaij Al-Khalifa

Some people depart this world, yet they leave behind in our hearts something that keeps their absence present, as if they had never left. Among them is our dear brother and friend, Sheikh Duaij Khalifa Al-Abdullah Al-Salim Al-Sabah, may God have mercy on him. Whenever we recall his memory, it feels as though his departure was just yesterday.

Five years after his passing, I do not wish to write merely about Duaij the poet, diplomat, and writer, but rather about the man we knew, and about his character and ethics, which deserve to become a culture we live by and pass on to future generations. Hence, the title of this reflection: “Spreading the Culture of Duaij Al-Sabah.”

Fate decreed that the sixth annual camp of Khowan High School for Curricula, organized and funded by our dear brothers Essam Al-Rafai and Haitham Al-Othman, with the participation of a group of colleagues, would serve as a witness to our last meeting with Duaij, may God have mercy on him. Before leaving the camp, he stopped by the tent, placed his hand on the shoulder of his brother and colleague Talal Al-Haider, then turned to me and said, “This dear friend Talal, do you know what we were during the invasion?” I replied, “No, by God, I don’t know.” He laughed and said, “We were martyrs!” I responded in astonishment, “Sheikh, how can you be a martyr when you are alive today?” He answered me with words I will never forget: “I am a Sheikh, but I am your brother who cannot do without you. Call me as you used to call me in high school: Duaij.” Then he added, wishing, “And may God keep this gathering of ours going.”

That was not just a passing remark, but a lesson in humility and brotherhood. He did not allow titles to create distance between him and his friends; rather, he emphasized that what unites us is greater than titles and positions—it is love and lifelong memories. His behavior reflected his noble upbringing and the values we cherish in our ruling family, and the close ties, loyalty, and enduring bonds that connect them with the people of Kuwait.

We did not know that that laugh would be among our last memories of him, nor that his wish for our gathering to continue would become a wish we repeat after his departure. Duaij, may God have mercy on him, was keen every year to attend our camp. He would not leave without a cake, and he always insisted that its design be unique each time, as if he wanted to leave us a sweet memory that renews with every camp. In the seventh camp, after his passing, his kind sister surprised us by bringing a cake shaped like a tent, out of loyalty to her brother and affection for his colleagues, as if continuing a beautiful tradition that Duaij had cherished. It was a cake, but it carried a meaning far greater than its size—a tent that unites us, just as the Khowan tent unites the people of Kuwait on one heart, across all their diverse backgrounds.

During the same camp, Duaij was honored. Our dear brother Essam Al-Rafai affirmed that honoring him would continue in future camps, so that his memory remains present among us. This is how loyalty is shown: love that does not end with the departure of those who embody it.

As for Duaij the poet, he chose for himself a description that encapsulates something of his spirit, when he said in his poem “Emotional Refugee”: “I am an emotional refugee, and in people’s hearts I find my rest.” Today, these words seem to summarize his life; he found his comfort in loving people, and he gave them from his affection and kindness in a way that made them feel his closeness.

The passing of the late Amir Sheikh Jaber Al-Ahmad Al-Jaber Al-Sabah, the “Amir of Hearts,” was one of the events that deeply pained Duaij and affected his soul, leaving in him a profound sorrow that reflected his loyalty and the Amir’s place in the hearts of Kuwaitis.

Duaij served his country diplomatically, and contributed to the cultural and artistic scene through his poems, song lyrics, and works related to theater and television. But he left in the hearts of his loved ones something that transcends achievements: his smile, his humility, his sweet tongue, and his eagerness to share people’s joys. If someone asked him to sponsor an event or participate in an honor ceremony, he would not refuse, whenever he was able to fulfill the request. He gave people from his time and attention, and made sure to stand by their side.

I swear by God that his innate goodness alone deserves to be taught; he found joy in making others happy, without expecting anything in return or seeking praise. But what we can learn most from Duaij is his tolerance toward those who wronged him. He faced criticism and insults, yet he was not among those who quickly turned every disagreement into a legal case. When I asked him why he did not sue those who had wronged him, he answered with words that encapsulated his philosophy of life: “Should I sue my own family? All the people of Kuwait are my family.” He considered the people of Kuwait his family, even when he disagreed with them. This was not a sign of weakness or a surrender of dignity, but rather an expression of his magnanimity and his belief that tolerance can preserve what disputes cannot. Today, as we witness widening divisions across social media platforms, accompanied by some instances of personal attacks, defamation, and vulgarity in disagreements, we are in greater need than ever of this culture. Do not intend to hurt anyone, do not diminish anyone’s dignity, and do not look down on others; for a harsh word may remain in its recipient’s heart for years, even if the speaker forgets it within minutes. Not everyone who remains silent about an insult is unharmed by it, and not everyone who overlooks it is unaffected by it; silence can be nobler than conflict, and overlooking an offense can be higher than responding. Let us learn to disagree without insulting, to admonish without hurting, and to keep our tongues filled with kind words; for how many words have mended a broken heart, and how many harsh words have left wounds that no one sees. May God have mercy on you, Duaij. Five years have passed, yet your departure still weighs on the heart as if it happened yesterday. Our loss was not merely that of a poet, a diplomat, or a writer, but of a human being who offered love to others, responded to their requests whenever he could, and treated them with humility that titles and status do not fabricate nor alter. I do not wish to confine myself to mourning you; rather, I hope your passing serves as a lesson for us all: to be compassionate before death becomes our own appointment, to speak kind words to those who deserve them while they are still here, rather than postponing them until they turn into eulogies. To apologize when we err, to forgive when we can, and to preserve people’s dignity; for we do not know when the last time will be that we see them. Oh Duaij, if only we could recognize the value of moments before they become memories, and say to those we love what is in our hearts before speech is directed only at their photographs. May God have mercy on you, Abu Khalifa, forgive you, and grant you a spacious place in His Paradise. You will remain a dear brother and friend, and your memory will ache us as much as your companionship brought us joy. A person may leave our sight, but his impact remains in his actions, in the words he left behind, and in the hearts that embraced him. Peace be upon your laughter, which we miss; upon your heart, which embraced everyone; upon your tongue, which was accustomed to kind words; and upon your soul, which sought its comfort in the hearts of people. Rest in peace, Duaij; for among us are those who remember you with goodness, and who sincerely long for you. The Howain tent, its gatherings, and our final meeting will remain testaments to a love that does not end with the departure of its owners. May God have mercy on you with a mercy that brings peace to your soul, gather us with you in the Highest Paradise, and have mercy on all the friends of yesterday whom we have lost from the graduates of Howain Secondary School for Curricula. We were united with them by school desks and youthful memories, and today all that remains for us of them is prayer and remembrance.